


Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da

by Brighid45



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot written for the Delphi Forums OCBabes September 2010 challenge. Work and life as seen through the eyes of our favorite diagnostician. No romance, just fun and a bit of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da

And so, the day begins . . .

You arrive late, of course. It’s expected of you. Even if you wanted to come in early (which you are not able to do, even if you wanted to), you couldn’t do it now, not after years of flipping the bird at your contractual obligation to be at work by nine. Rivers would reverse course, the sun would rise in the west, and dogs and cats would live together. Can’t have that, right? Riiiight. So in you get at ten forty-five a.m., and plan to make sure Wilson’s available to take you to a nice leisurely early lunch, one that might be stretched into two hours if you can get the boy wonder oncologist to talk. You didn’t have anything in the house to make breakfast, not even coffee, and you need to take your pain meds before you go down to the med/surg ward, grab a saw and hack off the offending limb. Maybe you’ll even take the other one off too—might as well even up the table legs, so to speak.

Unfortunately there is an obstacle to this plan in the shapely form of your boss, the Dean of Medicine. Today she wears a lightweight black wool suit by Chanel, shell-pink silk blouse, a double strand of real pearls with earrings to match and Manolo Blahnik four-inch stilettos. Her hair is immaculate, her makeup ditto. Such extravagant elegance on a workday means she probably has an appointment with a high-powered donor. Or possibly a meeting with the board about a frivolous lawsuit based on your allegedly inhumane treatment of patients, accompanied by a rant from the hospital lawyer (a humorless soul if there ever was one). It’s been known to happen before.

As you head for the elevators to escape she walks backward in front of you and gabbles away. She looks earnest and uncertain at the same time. You really couldn’t care less about whatever it is she has to say, and anyway you can’t really hear her because your leg hurts like a son of a bitch; all you want is a cup of good strong coffee and a doughnut, a handful of the crappy weak meds you’re allowed now post-nuthouse, and ten minutes to collect your thoughts before you get on with your day.

You make it to the elevator, stab the button with your cane (handy, that) and in a blessed act of mercy, Fortune opens the doors within five seconds. You wait for the car to empty out, step in, and throw some random smartass remark to the owner of the Manolo Blahniks. As the doors close you could swear she looks puzzled, annoyed and a little bit relieved—situation normal, then.

Your team waits for you in the Diagnostics suite. When you enter they’re ranged around the conference table, bickering over personal stuff as they paw through a tall stack of folders. It’s the only thing they do well and consistently. You skirt around this ticking time bomb and head straight for the coffeemaker, only to find that once again someone’s left a half-inch of brew in the carafe and it’s cooked down to tar. There are no grounds in the bag either, and the sugar’s rock-hard because yet another moron, or perhaps the same one, stuck a wet spoon in the container. Disgusted, you ignore questions hurled at you from the idiots at the table and head for Wilson’s office.

He’s there of course; he offers tissues to some woman, clearly a patient. Much to your surprise she doesn’t sob or blather on about how could this happen, what will her husband and kids do, why was God so mean to her. Instead she’s pretty steady, though she’s a bit pale. You look her over. She’s actually rather lovely in a quiet sort of way. You don’t get the sense that her acceptance comes from shock or unwillingness to believe what’s happened; she’s just trying to understand. Wilson exudes warm, gentle empathy in waves, his dark eyes focused only on his patient. When he does speak his voice is kind, soft, reassuring.

“We’ll do all we can to take care of you. The remission rate for this type of cancer is very high. There’s a good chance you’ll be just fine once you’ve done the surgery and chemo course.”

While he gives her Ye Olde Pep Talk, you get yourself a cup of joe and stir in plenty of free-flowing sugar, as you secretly enjoy the atmosphere of order and comfort you always find here. You sip and close your eyes as perfectly-brewed dark roast permeates your tissues, to rehydrate and rejuvenate them. It’s almost as good as bourbon to make you feel something even remotely like human. Maybe later you’ll steal another cup and add a little Booker’s as a pick me up. You’ll need it, as long and bitter experience has taught you.

“Doctor House,” Wilson says, “I don’t think you’ve met Lucy Truscott. Lucy, Doctor Greg House.”

“Doctor House.” She holds out a hand, slender but surprisingly strong. There are calluses on her fingertips.

“I teach piano,” she says when you ask her what instrument she plays. “Mostly I work with children, though I have a few adult students.” Her voice is soft; you can hear music in it. “Do you play?”

You tell her yes. Wilson takes over the conversation. It’s clear he thinks you might offend or even hurt this quiet woman, but you could tell him if he’d bothered to ask that you wouldn’t do that. She’s a fellow musician, and she’s a serious traveler. She endures what is probably the worst day of her life, and you feel no need to make it worse, in fact quite the opposite. You hope the treatment works; you hope it doesn’t affect her ability to play; you hope she teaches for many years to come.

After a few moments you realize the woman is gone. The great rationalizer is asking you something along the lines of “are you okay?” or “is there anything you want to tell me?” (as if) or “what the hell’s up with you, House?” You ignore him, add a little more coffee to your cup, and go back to your own office. The team is still there. The second you limp in they start yammering at you. Each fellow pushes for the case they’ve chosen from the pile of desperate people represented by folders scattered all over the table top. You have to choose one, but you’re in no mood to listen to several boring iterations of symptoms, so you fall back on a tried and true scientific method and silently chant ‘eenie meenie chili beanie’. You end up with the cute blond Aussie.

“Tell me more,” you say. The Aussie beams, because he thinks his powers of persuasion have done their work. Everyone else pouts and folds their arms.

It’s actually a decent case, so you toss out a few provocative remarks guaranteed to start the chain gang on their way, then retreat to your desk. You’ve still got a half cup of coffee; it’s not enough to take your meds with, but it’ll have to do. Even as you think it, half a toasted plain bagel spread with strawberry cream cheese is placed on your blotter, perched atop a pristine paper napkin.

“You really do need to go shopping once in a while, you know,” Wilson says. “Acme’s got a delivery service. It’ll cost you twenty bucks, but it’s cheaper than a perforated ulcer.” He shakes his head. “Take your meds. I’m going to lunch in half an hour.” With that he leaves. You munch the bagel and pop your pills and boot up your computer, to bypass your inbox crammed with emails and go straight for the porn. You’ve got half an hour to kill, might as well spend it in the noblest effort you know: distracting yourself from pain while you enjoy some tits and ass at the same time.

Half an hour later, as you sit in a booth with your erstwhile friend, steal his fries and devour your roast beef hoagie (dry, no tomatoes, lettuce or onions, double provolone) the Boss Lady shows up. She looks a bit wilted now, her hair not quite as perfect, and her lipstick is wearing off.

“Well?” she says. You look blank—you know you do, because she immediately gets mad. “Come on, House! I need an answer!”

You don’t want to admit you have no idea what the hell she’s talking about, so you make a comment about her cleavage. Of course that makes her angrier, and an angry Cuddy is an enjoyable sight; her bosom heaves, eyes flash . . . did you mention her bosom heaves?

“You know, I don’t ask you to do much around here,” she says, or rather snarls. She looks furious enough to spit nails. “One night a year the staff is asked to help out with fund-raising and you act like you’re being flayed alive!”

Ah, it’s the yearly poker tournament. You stop the rant before it’s really begun and agree to an appearance with every scrap of gracious assent you can muster. Cuddy blinks, her mouth open a little. Her eyes narrow with suspicion. You give her a sunny smile and steal another fry. She turns and strides away, but not before you see the uncertainty in her glance as she leaves. Mission accomplished; you’ve stymied her. She’ll leave you alone for a good long while now as she tries to figure out why you gave in so quickly.

Wilson lectures you now about how you jerk Cuddy around and make her life miserable. You blow bubbles in your fountain Coke to drown out his voice.

When you return to your office it’s to find the coffee carafe cleaned out and refilled with fresh brew. Everything’s been restocked including the sugar, and there’s a box of donut holes on the counter. Thirteen sits at the table, going over some test results. When you give her a hard stare she just looks back. A little smile lifts the corners of her mouth. Of all the fellows, she’s the one who understands you the best. The knowledge that death will come for her far sooner than for everyone else, to know she’ll die in a particularly slow, painful and horrible way, has opened her eyes. She does not choose to wear blinders, but she doesn’t speak much about what she sees. She acts on it instead. That earns her a large chunk of respect from you, though you’d never tell her so. You don’t need to anyway. She knows.

After a moment you turn your gaze from hers and hit the Soapnet link on your compy to catch up with _Prescription? Passion!_ You missed the last two episodes because your previous patient decided to take a turn for the worse before you got the diagnosis right at last—damned inconvenient timing, patients always get sick when you’re trying to watch tv. As the opening scene begins you kick back and listen, eyes closed. Trashy dialogue eases your mind for some reason; it’s like comfort food. Besides, with no visual input it’s just a little simpler to gear down from analysis overdrive.

Most people do not understand that you became a diagnostician because you had no choice. Everything and everyone gets dissected, whether you want to do it or not, because that’s how your brain works; you’ve been like that for as long as you can recall, and there is no way to turn it off or ignore it. One very early memory floats to the surface for a moment—when your mother found you at the kitchen table with the remains of a bouquet from your grandfather’s funeral. You couldn’t have been much more than four. All the flowers were neatly disassembled because you took them apart one by one, as you tried to understand what was inside them and how they worked.

 “What’s Victor up to?” Thirteen’s question jolts you out of your recollection. You push the remembrance away and trade desultory gossip about the lives of people who don’t exist until the rest of the team comes in. They look tired but elated. You are forced to terminate yet another attempt to catch up on your soap as you limp to the whiteboard and start to list symptoms.

An hour later they’re all off to do more tests, and it’s mid-afternoon. Just another hour or two and you can escape. Your pain has been a steady five since morning and it’s slowly getting worse. The meds you took earlier haven’t touched it. There must be a front on the way; drops or rises in barometric pressure, humidity and temperature wreak havoc on more than just your leg. Your right shoulder and elbow talk good and loud too, when the days get cold and blustery. It won’t be much longer before you’ll have to see a rheumatologist about arthritic changes. As long as it doesn’t affect your hands, you can live with it—not like you have a choice anyway. So far there haven’t been any signs of a problem.

You pour another cup of coffee, add a little sugar and tip in a shot or so of Booker’s from the stash in your bottom drawer. You’ve been very careful to keep the amount of consumption at the same level for a year now. One shot means by the time you’re ready to go home, you won’t be anywhere near the legal limit. The nightmare that was Tritter is always at the back of your mind. No way can you handle another war like that one, you’re just too damn tired. Mayfield’s taken much of the starch out of you, though you did get a decent tradeoff—no more hallucinations.

With doctored (harhar) coffee in hand, you grab your iPod and make your way to the easy chair, where you close the blinds at the front of your office before you settle in with feet propped on the ottoman, listening to some vintage Howlin’ Wolf.

“Leg’s bad today, isn’t it.”

With an impatient sigh you pop an earbud. Wilson is perched next to you. His jacket’s off, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, his hair a little tousled. He looks about twenty years old. You could hate him for that, you really could, but it’s not his fault he’s got Hardy Boy genes. “I called the Acme down the street from you and put in an order. They’ll bring it by this evening. Amazing what bribery can accomplish. You’ll have to get your own bourbon though.” He sighs and for a moment, the boyish charm fades. “I’m grabbing a shot, by the way.”

After he comes back, the two of you sit in silence for a few minutes.

“Cuddy’s seeing some guy in Accounting,” Wilson announces finally. You wave a hand in dismissal. “No, really. I saw her with him at Café Camillo the other night. She looked . . .” He thinks about it. “Satisfied.”

Fine by you. She’ll drain the life force out of that poor shmuck before he knows what’s hit him, then move on to someone else. It’s the main reason why you’ve stayed away from her all these years—that black hole she’s got hidden away deep within, the one that keeps her empty and desolate under the power colors and tough talk. Even so, you’d never admit it hurts you to see someone you care about try so desperately to find happiness, when you know she’s doomed to failure because she refuses to acknowledge the truth. Thirteen lives her short life more fully than Cuddy ever will, even with the latter’s forty-odd years ahead of her, years the younger woman won't get. 

On the other hand, the shmuck next to you deserves every snotty dig you can send his way, especially after he kicked you out of the loft and let Sam the Succubus take over. So you mock him for spying on their boss and accuse him of unrequited lust until he finishes his shot, gets up, scolds you for drinking on the job (because of course the assumption is that you’ve gone through half the bottle, while he only had a mere drop) and goes back to his office, to slam the door behind him. You can’t help but smile; annoying Wilson is one of life’s little pleasures, and you take your bliss where you can find it.

Eventually the team troops back in, full of noise about what’s been accomplished. You sort the wheat from the chaff with a few stinging rebukes about process and what it means to pay attention to detail, then kick the farmhands back into the field and make plans to decamp—a scheme which goes awry when the patient decides to code for no known cause. Plenty of excitement ensues, which means you’ll have to figure out how this new symptom fits in with the ones already listed. It doesn’t.

An hour later, your leg gives warning signs of going into hard spasm if you don’t take a muscle relaxant, lie down and stay down for a while. There’s nothing more you can do here; time to head for home. Thirteen gives you a nod. Everyone else rolls their eyes and says nothing, but you can hear what they think as clearly as if they’ve said it out loud: _lazy-ass bastard, he could at least put in eight hours, how hard can it be?_

Of course a clean getaway is an impossibility. You’re halfway across the lobby when Cuddy accosts you. She looks much the worse for wear now, though repairs have been made to the façade; the most telling detail is that she wears ballet flats, something she only does when she knows she won’t go out or meet anyone for the rest of the day. Without the extra four inches her pumps give her she’s talking into your sternum, a fact you’ve always found useful and amusing as well.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? If you don’t have a case you can do clinic duty . . .”

You edge toward the entrance, inform Cuddy that you do indeed have work and cannot be distracted from important ruminations by something as mundane as poking at genital warts or diagnosing terminal acne. She looks skeptical.

“If you’ve got a case then you should stay. If something happens you’ll just have to come back in anyway.”

There’s no point to tell her you won’t return unless the patient does something truly interesting, like transform into a sugar glider, thus sending the team on a chase through the hospital with big floaty nets. Come to think of it, that _would_ be pretty cool . . . You sidle to the entrance, push open a door, throw a smartass remark her way just as you did that morning, and then you’re free.

A few hours later, you’re crammed full of Indian takeout and stretched out on the couch watching the Phils play when someone knocks at the door. It turns out to be the grocery order. There are bags everywhere, and an older woman stands in their midst. She watches as you approach, sees your hard limp and cane; her gaze lingers too long on your bad leg, which tempts you to slam the door in her face. But you need the groceries and can't give in to pride.

“Doctor House?” She offers a smile with no sincerity in it; it’s Be Nice To Cripples Day in her world. “Let me help you with this.”

She clucks in dismay at the desolate state of your cupboards and fusses about where to put things until you’re ready to clobber her over the head with the baguette Wilson decided you needed. However, at long last she leaves and you’re left with a kitchen that looks like someone actually uses it to cook, not just as a place to heat up leftovers. It’s kind of nice to have some fresh mint in a glass of water on the windowsill, a hand of bananas and a bowl of apples on the counter, fresh loaves in the breadbox. The freezer is full of pot pies, Stouffer’s mac and cheese and ice cream, and the fridge holds enough breakfast items, juice and vegetables to feed an army. You look at this largesse and know it is your friend’s way of caring for you, along with assuaging his own guilt at his abandonment after he agreed to take you in. As far as you’re concerned that’s an acceptable combination, one you’ll keep using while it still gets you what you want or need.

There are two boxes of Tastykake Juniors on the counter, one chocolate, one coconut. You rip open the coconut box and hum a song under your breath. You heard it on the car radio as you were headed home and now it’s stuck in your head.

“Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra! Ay-yah how the life goes on . . .”

You snag a cake and head back to the living room, where another muscle relaxer awaits and the Fightin’ Phils stop at nothing in their quest for victory.


End file.
